


Hold Fast Hope

by moments



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Soulmates, horribly cliche because im terrible, its an au but just assume everything is the same as real life except the soulmates thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4377671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moments/pseuds/moments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A soulmates au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Fast Hope

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i finally wrote this.
> 
> this fic is based entirely on [this](http://unsufferingly.tumblr.com/post/124515552017/hamcheese35x-weeping-angels-take-the-ponds) tumblr post that has been saved in my drafts for almost two years now. i've been wanting to write a larry thing based around it for just as long and the idea for this finally came to me a few days ago. i wrote it in just under 24 hours and it's the longest thing i've written to date, so. go me!
> 
> i'm not british and this wasn't brit-picked or beta'd so if anything seems off just let me know. :) enjoy!
> 
> (title from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lp6MUboaOqw) song)

Harry is nervous.

Well, he's always been nervous. Always had a sort of reminder in the back of his head, counting down the hours, minutes, seconds, willing himself to just stop thinking about it.

He's sixteen now, and has spent all sixteen years of his life counting the numbers willfully, never losing track of how much longer he has.

 _Thinking about it won't make it happen faster_ , he tells himself. _The numbers won't move more quickly. Time won't adjust to accommodate your nerves._

But that's not all he's nervous about.

Currently, he's standing in a cue made up of hundreds, maybe even thousands of waiting people. Most of them are biting their nails or focused on their phones, everyone occupying some kind of nervous habit to keep distracted.

He's pretty sure there was nothing on the x-factor's website that warned against waiting in the sun for hours on end. He's trying not to be worried about it, but he's already downed two bottles of water, and hair is matted to his forehead. He might not even get anywhere in the competition. With all these people here, the odds are probably awfully against him.

Harry thinks he has what it takes, but not in a bragging or boasting sort of way. He knows he can sing, has more confidence when he's doing so than any time else. He's just not sure he'll be able to tear his eyes away from his wrist for long enough to actually open his mouth.

When he was four he asked his mum why the numbers kept going down. He didn't know why they were they or why he couldn't wash them off. His friend John from the playground had spent all day telling him about the new tattoo his dad had just gotten, but that they were only for grown ups and they would have to wait. Harry had been confused. Weren't the numbers on his wrist the same thing? When Harry had asked him about it, about why they all having matching ones if they're only mean for grown-ups. John had leaned forward and lined his wrist up with Harry's. _Silly, they don't match! We've all got our own. I dunno why we've got them, but mum says we'll find out when we're big kids._

Anne wouldn't tell him until he was six. It's a fond memory now, Harry realizes, drawing the thought to mind and smiling to himself while shuffling forward with the crawling line. She'd finally grown tired of his incessant pestering of the same question, day after day until the days turned to years and he was finally her version of old enough.

The concept of soulmates was weird at first. Like, what if the universe got it wrong and the person his wrist was counting down to turned out to be a massive arsehole?

He _especially_ didn't get it when his mum told him that people change and sometimes things don't work out. That's why his dad had left. That's why there were people born with numbers already at zero.

_Sometimes the universe just gets it wrong. But not most of the time. Especially not for someone like you, dear._

God, he hopes not.

It's still a little bit confusing to him sometimes. How can fate be considered a concept when its foundation, its primary leading idea, the one that explains the numbers and the soulmates and the _0 days 3 hours 48 minutes 5 seconds_ on his wrist, sometimes just gets it wrong? What if he's one of the unlucky ones?

It's a terrifying idea, if he's honest. Harry's always been one to thrive off companionship. Finding someone to spend a lifetime with has never sounded too bad.

Then again, while it may be true that the universe can play wicked games, looking around at the people surrounding him, everyone's wrists are printed with black ink. Numbers blur together and silently tick in time with the beating of his heart as they all flow forward together. They've all got their own forevers, waiting to be met. Maybe there's someone here with numbers that match his own.

_0 seconds 3 hours 40 minutes 28 seconds_

It's all he can do to drop his arm to his side and go over the lyrics to the song he's chosen for the millionth time in his head. His mum's next to him, engaged in conversation with Gemma. They had both insisted on coming, claiming they couldn't miss the "first step on his future rise to fame."

 _I wish,_ Harry thinks. _Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky._

When he looks over at them, they're a blur of wild hand gestures and loud explanations, silently giving him the space he needs. He's grateful for it, not sure the storm in his stomach would still enough to allow for conversation.

_0 days 3 hours 37 minutes 47 seconds_

He knows the lyrics. He knows he can sing. Simon fucking Cowell is waiting to hear him let loose. The queue is a chaotic mess of water bottles and vocal warm ups and shaking hands and the sun is beating down, hot against Harry's head.

There's a "hey!" from his left and a blond haired boy who runs past him at top speed, clutching a guitar and followed by two others, voices flying by in passing protests. There's a boy being interviewed by cameras and microphones some ways behind him and an overall flurry of voices and color. Underneath the piled up nerves, there's sense of excitement that hangs in the air, shrouding them all in light.

So, yeah. Harry's going to meet his soulmate in approximately three and a half hours, but it's not like the world is ending around him.

\--

There's paperwork. A lot of it. Signatures are exchanging hands and there are lines for him to sign on, even though he's not yet 18, and then he's being herded to a waiting area with his mum and Gemma still by his side. He's handed a tag with numbers that he's to pin to his shirt, and they're told to wait until his name is called. Harry wants to scream.

But he's _here_ , holy fuck, he's here. He's somewhere he's always wanted to be with a chance in front of him that he never thought he'd get to live out. It's just been a bit exhausting so far, the whole shepherding between lines and swarms of people being enough to take a lot out of all of them.

It's been nearly five hours now, two since they were shown to this waiting room, and he's dehydrated from standing in the sun for so long and tired from waking up early and his wrist reads lower and lower every time he gives in to temptation and looks.

It's frustrating. Frustrating and exhausting and he's not even sure he can do this anymore. It's one thing to sing for his sister during karaoke night, and another to get up on a stage in front of people who know what they're talking about–whose words can actually damage his ego if he doesn't get a grip on his nerves.

"Harry Styles."

He freezes. Oh god. Oh god, he can't do this.

"Hey, H?" It's Gemma. He can just barely recognize her voice from where it breaks the sound barriers clogging his ears. "You there?"

"I- yeah. Yeah, I'm," he swallows, wipes his clammy palms against his jeans, and stands. "Yeah."

"Hey," Gemma says, swinging her arms around his neck and pulling him in close. "Go up there and kill it baby bro. I'm proud of you. So proud, I'll even refrain from saying anything mean until after you've won them all over without even trying."

He laughs shakily. "Thanks Gems."

She releases him from their embrace and he turns to his mum. He can already see tears in her eyes, and it's like she knows. Like her motherly instinct knows it's not just the song he's worried about. There's a time bomb on his arm that's about to detonate.

He has to go up there with the most important moment of his life just minutes away. It's all a bit intimidating.

His mum pulls him in, hugs him tight against her chest, and says, "I'd tell you to go up there and make me proud but I'm not sure I've much room to grow in that department." She's almost crying. Not quite.

"Mum, please. No tears," he tells her. "If you cry I'll cry and we'll be watching this on telly in a few weeks and I'll have to turn it off out of embarrassment because I cried in front of Simon Cowell."

She laughs, a warm sound that lets him know he's got support, regardless of what happens while he's up there and after. She hugs him one last time, quickly, and then he's being dragged away, led down a series of hallways to a dimly lit backstage area where he's told to wait behind a few others.

No one's speaking. The stage is only a few feet away, and Harry can hear the booming sounds of the judges voices from where they're out there, waiting for him. There's tension. A lot of it, hanging thick and heavy between all of them, nerves rendering everyone silent.

He doesn't check his arm. There's no need to. It wouldn't do anything to settle his stomach, and the line is growing smaller, and smaller still and-

he has to pee.

It's crude and completely untimely. All the water he drank prior to now could not have picked a worse time to kick in.

He's next in line to take the stage, can hear the sounds of the previous contender's endless thank you's as the judges put him through, and then he's bouncing off, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed.

Harry recognizes him as the boy with the guitar who ran past him earlier. He seems carefree, excited and happy, and he pats Harry on the shoulder as he jumps off stage goodnaturedly. With a whispered "good luck!" in an Irish accent, he's gone.

He's gone, and the stage is Harry's.

A man with a clipboard and a headset hands him a microphone, hurriedly asks, "Harry Styles?" to which Harry only nods, and then he's being walked up a set of stairs to the stage and his feet are carrying him out into blinding light and the numbers are the last thing on his mind.

All he has to do for now is sing. He can worry about the rest later.

\--

He's through.

He stumbled through some probably dry, utterly, utterly boring monologue about baking scones, of all things, and now it's going to be on national television and probably still on youtube in five years. Fuck.

But he's _through_. His heart is beating out of his chest as he runs from the stage grinning wildly, cheeks tinted pink. He can barely feel his fingers, it's so insane to believe. His entire body has probably gone numb.

It's the best thing, until he flicks his eyes down to his wrist without even thinking. The movement is awfully instinctive.

_0 Days 0 hours 3 minutes 56 seconds_

He can see his mum and Gemma waiting a little ways off, smiling and hugging each other, standing in front of a large TV. He's about to walk over to them when his bodily instincts kick in, and he's suddenly hyper-aware of how badly he needs to pee.

Three and a half minutes.

Three and a half minutes until he meets his soulmate, and he might miss it because his bladder is about to explode. Fuck, he should've gone ages earlier.

The hallway from before was nothing but an unintelligible mess of twists and turns. One of those doors had to lead to a bathroom of some kind.

He turns to a man wearing a nametag and a security badge and hurriedly asks, "where's the loo?" The man points down a hallway and mumbles something about taking a left, and Harry _runs._

It's such a good feeling, the most incredible feeling, actually, to relieve himself after five hours and several water bottles with no time to stop.

He's got a hand on himself and is about to let out a sigh of relief when he looks down, the numbers imprinted into his wrist coming sharply into focus.

_0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 48 seconds_

Jesus Christ.

This can't be happening. Oh god, this can't be happening like this. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and curses himself for drinking so much water earlier. Thirty seconds until his life shifts entirely and he's got a hand on his dick and is standing at a urinal.

Clearly, everything is fine.

_0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 15 seconds_

Fifteen seconds. He needs to be done peeing and out of this bathroom like, five minutes ago.

He's almost bouncing on his toes, nerves settling back into the pit of his stomach. His wrist is counting back from ten and he's still somehow peeing. It's like his bladder has a mind of its own.

Of all the times he's imagined this moment, watching in anticipation as the numbers counted down to one and then stopped entirely, he never quite pictured it like this. He always imagined he'd be right where he needed to be: at school, at the library, at a gig somewhere, even at the tescos down the road from his house like it had been for his mum.

No. Instead he's here, and it's hard to even be excited about the fact that he's gotten through on the fucking x-factor. He's gotten through and will spend the next few weeks waiting for his audition to air on tv, and then it's bootcamp for however long he lasts and oh god, his wrist is at five seconds, and then it's at three and Harry just can't watch this happen. He can't watch the numbers tick down to zero while he stands in a public restroom entirely alone and contemplates the value of his life.

Two seconds. Harry closes his eyes again and starts to swear against his life that he'll never open them again, will never be able to live with the knowledge that things just didn't work out for him the way they were supposed to, and-

The door swings open.

Harry's heart stops.

The boy who's just walked in takes the urinal next to him. Which, what? The bathroom is entirely empty. It's rather uncomfortable peeing next to someone when they could very easily _not_ be peeing next to each other.

This isn't happening. He's not standing in a restroom with a complete stranger while he's supposed to be out there meeting the love of his life. He doesn't open his eyes at first. He doesn't need to look at his wrist to know the numbers aren't changing anymore.

It's kind of completely unmonumental.

Maybe the universe just has other plans for him. It's heartbreaking to think about. The numbness is starting to creep back in, only it's different from the previous post-performance rush he'd gotten. He's not sure how to feel, not sure how he's expected to act at a moment like this.

He's so unsteady in his movements, his hand slips just slightly on his dick as he tries to shake himself off and, fuck. Oh _fuck_ , he didn't just pee on a stranger. That's not a thing that just happened.

"Oops," he says, and, Jesus _fuck_ , he just peed on someone and made it entirely worse by apologizing in the worst way ever. "I'm so sorry, mate, I-" he shuffles his feet against the tiled floor. "Well, this is awkward? I'm- Sorry. Again."

He tucks himself back into his pants and wrings his hands out awkwardly. He's not sure what to do. Does he wait for a response or just leave? It's not like he's got any pressing matters to attend to, and he really does feel bad for accidentally peeing on a stranger.

The boy laughs. "Hi yourself! No worries mate," he says, perfectly chipper. "Happens to the best of us."

Harry raises an eyebrow and turns to face him, catching sight of his face and, oh. He's perfectly lovely, actually, fringe falling to just above his eyes that glow light-blue and shine in a way that seems too bright for a dingy xfactor bathroom. He's kind of stunningly attractive. Harry almost feels even worse. It was bad enough to pee on a stranger to begin with, but a _cute_ stranger? It's decided. The universe hates him.

"Okay, then," Harry says, unsure of how to respond. He doesn't want to be the one to walk away first.

There's a pause.

Then, "Harry, right?"

"Erm, yeah." Harry's a bit confused. He's sure they haven't met before. He would've remembered.

"I probably sound like a right stalker," the boy starts to say. "I swear I haven't got tabs on all your social medias. I did see your audition, though. Fuckin' killed it mate. I swear, if you're not selling out arenas within the next few years it's only 'cause the sun exploded and killed us all."

Harry blushes. He's never sure how to respond to compliments, but something about this boy's words feel comforting. Like maybe he could drown in the octave of his voice and live in the cadence it creates forever.

"Thank you," he says earnestly. "It was rather terrifying being up there, I honestly don't know how I managed to-"

the universe stops.

The earth pauses its rotation. The warps in spacetime shift and everything rolls off its axes.

The boy moves to button up his pants and Harry's eyes follow the movement. He's not even being discreet about the way he's staring straight at the boy's wrist.

_0 days 0 hours 0 minutes 0 seconds_

"I- your," Harry chokes out, mouth suddenly dry.

The boy's eyebrows furrow. "What? Do I have something on my jeans?" He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Are you okay? You've gone sorta pale."

"Um," Harry scratches his nose awkwardly. "Your countdown thingie."

"Oh!" The boy exclaims in complete contrast to Harry's nervous expression, looking down at his wrist and running his thumb over the ink, taking a moment to consider what it means. Harry's eyes track the movement. "Guess I completely forgot about it. Audition nerves and all that. 'M not even sure when it got to zero, if I'm honest."

"Oh," Harry says. He's not sure if he should say something. He's more nervous than he's ever been in his life, more nervous than before his audition just an hour ago, more nervous than before every nerve wracking moment he can't currently call to mind. His stomach is churning and he's just standing there, arms by his side, wrists turned in against his body to hide the ink against his jeans.

Who even is this boy, talking about his fate like it's the cereal he eats every morning for breakfast when it's all Harry's been able to think about all his life. It throws him off a bit, the way he speaks so casually, like the numbers hit zero everyday.

"What's yours at, then?" The boy asks playfully, clearly a joke to warm the room with friendly conversation. Only, it does nothing but serve to worsen the situation in Harry's stomach.

He's uneasy more than anything, wants to show his arm to the boy and tell them they're in the same boat, though they're clearly not. Because while he's in the presence of this boy whose voice is warm and smooth, he's not sure how he's supposed to reveal his own arm. If, that is, he's even going to.

It's a serious war his head is waging. One he's probably thinking too hard about. It's just weird, the way standing next to this boy feels _right_ , in some odd sense of the feeling. And his wrist isn't changing and his insides feel like soup and the heat radiating between the two of them isn't doing much to calm the sensation in his stomach and he feels kind of light and floaty, nervous and scared, yet grounded, so grounded, more earthly than he's ever been before.

And then he looks up at the boy and meets his eyes and it''s like something snaps inside him.

Like suddenly it makes sense.

His eyes widen, his heart resumes functioning, and there's warmth spreading from behind his growing grin that floods his body.

Because, holy _fuck_. It's him. He's in the loo at the most inconvenient time possible because it's _right where he's supposed to be._ Harry could cry. It's all rushing through him so quickly, thoughts running a million miles an hour as he searches, racks his brain for words to describe the feeling.

He wants to scream.

But, in the best way possible. Because just minutes ago he was accepting his seemingly inevitable fate as one of the universe's playthings and now here he is, stomach full of waves that crash and burn, looking into a pair of eyes that look the way his insides feel.

"What's your name?" Harry asks in lieu of being unable to form a single coherent thought.

"Louis," he tells him, eyes wide out of curiosity. "Why?"

"Louis," Harry breathes, letting the name leave his mouth on an exhale. It's like his entire sixteen years of life have led up to this moment of saying Louis' name as they stand by the urinals and speak in broken conversation.

"Y'know, you're doing a lot of asking questions without answering some yourself."

Harry grins in response. He's not sure he'll ever possess the capability to form words again with the way his mouth is permanently stretched across his face.

It's an unreal feeling to hold his arm out and turn his wrist toward the ceiling, letting it hover there as it makes silent conversation between the two.

Louis lifts his own arm and slides it up next to Harry's.

They're suspended in time, zeros lined up perfectly, frozen against each other. Harry can't stop smiling. He wants to say something but he's not sure he could speak without crying out of sheer happiness. He looks from their matched-up wrists back up at Louis and finds the other boy already beaming back at him.

It's all so strange. Five minutes ago they were nothing but strangers peeing next to each other, and now they're supposed to spend the rest of their lives together.

Apparently, Louis is thinking the same thing. He bursts into laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges. His shoulders shake as he laughs, Harry notices, and the entire thing is weird and funny at the same time. He can't stop himself when he join Louis in laughter, and then they're both laughing together, the sound echoing in the tiled bathroom.

"I have to be honest," Louis says as he starts to calm down, "This isn't how I expected it to happen."

"Me either," Harry admits. "I almost wanted to cut my dick off when I couldn't stop peeing. Thought I was missing my moment by being in here."

Louis bursts into another round of laughter at that, grin stretching across his face in a sort of smirk.

"'M serious!" Harry protests, blushing slightly. "Thought for a moment that being in the loo meant it just wasn't going to work out for me."

"I don't really know what I was thinking for myself," Louis says softly. "Guess I never really paid much attention to mine. I've tried getting used to the idea of just letting things happen."

"Lucky. I've been nervous all day."

"I haven't thought about much but my audition lately," Louis says. Then, "fuck. Speaking of. They might've called my name already."

"You should probably get back out there."

"Yeah, I-" Louis pushes his hair out of his eyes. "Where do we go from here?"

Harry's not really sure himself. Never having considered this situation means he hasn't gotten this far in planning. His entire being is still trying to catch up with recognizing Louis as his person. It's a bit unnerving.

"Hey, tell you what," Louis says. "Why don't we leave it up to fate?"

Harry's expression turns puzzled. What the hell is Louis talking about. "What?"

"Well, we're both here now. Clearly fate has had some sort of say in this."

"Well, yeah. I mean, obviously?" He's confused. "That's how its supposed to work. Powers of the universe and all."

"Exactly!" Louis exclaims, voice shrill and unabashedly loud and so, so beautiful. "I have to go back out there and sit with me mum and sisters and pray they haven't called for me yet. And something tells me you haven't broken the good news to your respective fanclub yet."

Harry grins bashfully. How are they already so in tune with one another? "Alright," he agrees. "Fate's gotten us this far."

"And it'll get us farther."

"Yeah," Harry agrees.

"I'd ask if we could get a picture but I feel like it'd ruin the deal we've just made."

Harry fake gasps, pretends to be completely affronted by the suggestion. "Is my face _really_  that forgettable?"

Louis walks to the sinks while shaking his head playfully in response. He turns the tap on and pumps at the soap dispenser for a moment before scrubbing his hands together and running them under the water. Harry watches him grin down at his hands in the mirror. He begins to mimic Louis' motions, leaving the other boy to contemplate for a moment.

When Louis finally turns the tap off, he shakes his hands out and crosses his arms across his chest, leaning a hip against the sink and turning to face Harry.

Harry's still washing up. The sound of running water is loud against the surrounding silence.

He turns it off just as Louis says, "don't think I could forget you if I tried," in a soft voice.

Isn't that just something, Harry thinks. He's kind of in love with the universe for creating a concept as wicked as soulmates.

He smiles, Louis mirroring the expression as they look at each other for another moment.

"Let's hope not," Harry says.

Louis shakes his head fondly, pushing himself off the sink and turning for the door.

"I'll see you soon!" Louis calls, pulling the door open and looking back over his shoulder at Harry.

Their eyes lock for another moment, and the storm in Harry's stomach calms entirely. All he feels is ease, looking into Louis' eyes like this. Louis smiles one last time, winks secretively at him before he's out the door to live out the rest of his life before Harry comes back into the picture.

Harry grins to himself. He looks down at his wrist, admires the ink adorning the underside of his wrist, and lifts it to his mouth.

He closes his eyes and presses his lips against the raised skin there. "See you," he whispers.

He believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> come talk to me on twitter @disasterstyles!!


End file.
